I headed to the creek to get a pot full of water
And tripped on a root on my way back to camp.
I staggered and stumbled but didn’t fall,
Then dropped the pot and spilled it all.
So, I turned around and headed back to the stream
And filled the pot up once again.
I set it down by the side of the creek
Then noticed it had a brand-new leak.
I realized that when I dropped the pot,
It must have hit a rock and cracked.
Since the leak was small, I decided to
Just run it back since the drops were few.
I kept my eyes on the pot as I hurried my pace,
That was a big mistake ‘cause I stubbed my toe.
I sat down and put the pot on a rock,
Then took off my shoe and bloody sock.
There wasn’t much to do but whimper and yell,
So, I put my shoe back on and resumed my chore.
I hadn’t thought to take the lid for the pot,
And it was too late when I had that thought.
When I reached down to grab the pot of water
Rocks and dirt fell in from my sleeve.
I watched in disbelief as the liquid turned,
It went from clear to cloudy, and I became concerned.
Thoughts of grit in the chocolate pudding
Mixed with visions of noodles with rocks.
I couldn’t stomach what lay in store,
If I didn’t go back to get water once more.
Once again, I went back to the creek,
And filled the pot with a new batch of water.
I’d more carefully hurry this time, I resolved,
And the fetching of water would finally be solved.
Back to the camp, I hastily walked,
Fully intent to return with a full pot of water.
Halfway back I rounded a bend,
And suddenly thought my life would end.
I was startled and threw the pot into the air
Then froze and looked down, not wanting to stare.
From the corner of my eye, I watched as a bear
Stood up and growled, giving me quite a scare.
But soon, the bear turned and headed away,
And I was spared a gruesome end.
But once again there was no water,
Although I’d avoided an ugly slaughter.
I took a moment to regain my composure,
And reconsider the task at hand.
I decided to change the plan and revamp,
If I wanted supper water at my nearby camp.
Once more I walked down to the creek,
And filled the pot again despite the leak.
Then I turned and headed back,
This time managing to stay on track.
It was still light when I got back to camp,
And I pulled another pot from my backpack.
I filled it with the water, covered it, and put it on to heat.
“Finally,” I thought, “I’m about to eat.”
While the water heated up,
I found the noodles in the bag.
Soon the liquid gently boiled,
But the water violently roiled.
The pot fell off the stove,
And the water poured onto the ground.
I pondered the scene and began to cry.
Then, soon thereafter I let out a sigh.
And so, I sat and feasted on dry noodles,
Ate chocolate powder with two pecans.
It wasn’t the meal I’d planned to eat,
But reckoned my quest for water had been a full defeat.
It was Christmas break of my sophomore year in high school when Jake and I took off from Denton. We geared up and drove his parent’s VW Camper/van (with their permission), bound for Mexico with a stop in Douglas, Arizona. The plan was to meet up in Douglas with an older, more mature person named Jim, whom I knew from the summer camp where I had worked the previous summer. From there, the three of us would travel to Guaymas, Mexico, where we’d camp, have some quality beach time, and experience a bunch of “neat adventure stuff.” In the van, we had scuba gear packed away under one of the seats in cardboard boxes, places to sleep, and we must have had some food somewhere. (Note- I’m not sure how we got our parents to agree to the plan. Although I do remember it being a good thing that we would be under the supervision of someone older).
Jake and I drove to Douglas, where we connected with Jim at his parent’s house. We spent a day there doing “the friends visiting from out of town” routine, which included supper across the border in Agua Prieta. The next day we loaded Jim’s baggage into the van and took off across the border toward the coastal city of Guaymas, which we had randomly chosen as our destination.
Cross the glacier,
And probe the surface ahead
With a pole.
Reach below,
And feel for hidden holes,
Filled with emptiness.
It’s a profound place
Of majestic vistas and open spaces.
Crisscrossed by mysterious cracks of darkness
Known as crevasses.
Which lie in wait–
Hoping to swallow you up,
And drink you into,
Their endless world of ice and cold.
Some are open for all the world to see.
Others are hidden under a thin shield of snow
And the sea you walk,
Is constantly changing.
The shape of each crevasse,
And where they are,
At any given moment in time,
May never be known.
But can be better understood.
Feel the edges underneath,
Where the breaches end,
And the solid glacier extends.
And follow the path of most resistance.
If you do,
The going is slow-
Circuitous and wobbly.
But perhaps you won’t fall in,
And will get where you’re going.
Touch the ground with both your feet.
Feel the rhythm calmly beat.
Even through the rock and grass,
A heartbeat faintly rumbles.
Persistent pulsing
Soft, but lively.
Listen closely,
Answer wisely.
There are times it talks with words of thunder,
Howling winds, or crashing wonder.
But it’s mostly through peaceful silent breaths
That it tells its awesome tale.
Let it pull you with its rope,
And fill you up with hope.
Though you may not know the words,
It will magnify your scope.
Hear the music with your eyes,
See the clouds across the skies.
Bask in rays of winter sunshine,
And watch as waves approach the shoreline.
It is…
Star-filled nights and crispy mornings,
Tornado funnels without warnings.
Rolling dunes of glassy sand,
Forgotten places beyond man’s hand.
Gentle streams and roaring rivers,
Monstrous cliffs that give you shivers.
Fields of tundra filled with flowers,
Afternoons consumed with showers.
Rock towers covered with Bighorn Sheep,
Canyon walls so very steep.
Ocean trenches mighty deep,
Sights and sounds that make you weep.
Mountain crags and endless deserts,
Places thriving on the outskirts.
Caves reaching ever inward,
Jungles vast and still unhindered.
So many chapters in the story,
Sometimes gloom, but always glory.
So, touch the ground beneath your feet,
And feel the rhythm calmly beat.
Ryan had never bonked before, at least in the metabolic shock/ overexertion sense of the word. When he started to bumble around and lose more and more of his edge, I knew that something was up and figured that’s what had happened. Not realizing what was going on, he kept on trying to mountain bike further up the Colorado Trail, although with diminishing returns. The big patches of snow that remained on the trail, even though it was June, were probably a good thing since they ultimately turned us all around. His disrupted mental and physical state likely made the retreat more palatable to the 13-year-old, since he wasn’t one to be prone to turn around before his goal was reached.
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